


The Adventures of Hermione & Draco

by Frumpologist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Campy, F/M, Humor, In Another Life Fest, Inspired by Lois and Clark: the adventures of Superman, Journalist Draco Malfoy, Journalist Hermione Granger, Lighthearted, Secret Identity, Superhero Draco Malfoy, superhero au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 06:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17976110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/pseuds/Frumpologist
Summary: Hermione Granger is forever at odds with her annoyingly handsome coworker, Draco Malfoy. If their frenemies relationship isn’t enough already, Malfoy is up for a prestigious award at work that Hermione has been busting her arse to win. Her very career rests on the next story she covers and she’s determined to unmask the long-hidden identity of their local neighborhood superhero, The Dragon.





	The Adventures of Hermione & Draco

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> Level 3 prompts: complete mystery - Superheroes AU
> 
> This fic was written for the In Another Life Dramione AU Fest put on by Kyodreams. Thank you, lovelies, for hosting and organizing such an amazing fest! I hope everyone checks out all of the AU stories that were borne of this fest! This fic is heavily inspired by Lois and Clark (The New Adventures of Superman). No infringement is intended and I am not gaining financially from this story (but gosh I wish I was!). 
> 
> So much love and adoration to the ever amazing Pronunciation_Hermy_One for talking me down many ledges and cheerleading and fixing all my crazy tense issues. You’re the best alpha/beta a girl could ask for! <3

Her desk was organized chaos, though that was really just a fancy way to say that half-finished articles, pens, and clipped headlines littered every bit of the wooden surface. Nearly every piece of paper had a ring of coffee stamped into it. No pen was paired with a lid. The bin stuffed under her desk was filled to the brim with crumpled papers and discarded chewing gum wrappers – sugar free, of course. No one at The Daily Prophet could possibly find anything on her desk, save for Hermione Granger. 

“Granger!” The saccharine voice of her boss, Rita Skeeter, rang through the office. “What’s the meaning of this?” 

Hermione’s head popped up from the paper she scribbled on, pen grasped tightly between her fingers, and peered over the short wall of her cubicle. Skeeter, dressed head to toe in hot pink faux-alligator scales, bustled through the maze of gray walls toward her. Her fuchsia lipstick outlined a deep scowl on her face and her manicured hand clutched a thick bundle of papers that she swatted onto Hermione’s desk when she approached. 

“I’m sorry, Rita, what’s the problem?” Hermione asked innocently, even as her eyes reviewed the headline:  **Local Shopkeeper Scandal: Illegal Imports of Wood Creates Pest Problem for London’s Environmental Sector** . 

“What’s the—Granger, are you having a laugh?” Rita’s pink nail pointed at the headline and her tongue prodded the inside of her cheek. “You can’t oust Ollivander! He’s one of our largest benefactors!” 

“He’s smuggling illegal wood!” Hermione protested angrily. “I’m an investigative reporter, not a crime syndicate lobbyist!” 

“You are an employee of the finest newspaper in England.” Rita spoke through her perfectly white, straight teeth. Hermione could practically hear her molars grinding. “We have certain obligations to our advertisers and one of them is not alluding to their potential criminal activity!” 

Hermione stood from her desk, hands pressed flat against the scattered papers on top of it, and glared at Rita with fiery, brown eyes. No one stopped her from doing the best job she possibly could; not a boss, not the government, and certainly not some two-bit criminal who, until Hermione had infiltrated his operation, was getting away with ruining the environment with his ruddy schemes. She opened her mouth, ready to tell Rita precisely where she could stuff her opinions on the article, when Rita waved a hand at her. 

“I’ll spin it somehow,” she said begrudgingly, still fuming but obviously biting back what she’d say to anyone else who tried to be so bold with their reports. “If you’re going to pull a stunt like this, at least clear it with me so that I can be proactive with the clean up.” 

Hermione’s demeanor changed instantly. She stood straight, hands at her sides, and a small smile curled the corner of her lips. “I’ll do my best, Rita.” 

“Alright.” Rita exhaled sharply through her nose and held back whatever retort wanted to force its way out of her mouth. She turned to walk away, but glanced back to Hermione over her shoulder and added, “You’re still the best reporter I’ve got, Granger. Try not to take advantage too often, yeah?” 

As Rita sashayed away, verbally lashing the other reporters for small issues in their articles, Hermione sat back down at her desk and tried not to smile too smugly. It has taken her years to build up this kind of rapport and it was frightening how quickly it could come crumbling down if she wasn’t careful. 

She glanced down at the article she was currently writing – a piece on jewelry smugglers out of Spain – and chewed on the lid of her pen. It didn’t specifically call any one shop owner out, and none that were associated with The Daily Prophet. All she had to do was get into the local museum and open a couple of the newly delivered crates to see if her sources were correct. Rumor had it, someone at the museum had knowledge of the precious stones hiding away in the freight, but how to get in… 

A white polystyrene cup with a brown cardboard sleeve appeared in front of her. A mouthwatering aroma wafted around her and Hermione couldn’t help but reach out for the hot coffee. When she brought her eyes up to the wonderful soul who gifted it, Hermione scowled instantly. 

“Malfoy.” Still, she didn’t let go of the coffee and instead sipped from the steaming cup. “You’re late again, I see.”

“Early, as a matter of fact.” He smirked around the lip of his cup. “Chasing down a lead at half three this morning. We can’t all sit at our desks and have the accolades come to us.” 

Hermione all but slammed her cup down onto the desk, leaving another stained piece of paper in her wake. He certainly looked as if he’d been up at all hours of the night. Malfoy was pale against his black suit coat, his platinum hair parted perfectly to the right. He’d gotten new glasses, she noticed, thicker frames that were square around his eyes. Attractive didn’t begin to describe this man, with his lithe frame and impeccable fashion sense. 

Still, Draco Malfoy was her biggest competition. They were frequently up for the same awards, but the biggest one—the career-launcher—would be announced only in a few short weeks and so she had no time to consider his attraction or their budding friendship or, God forbid as Rita suggested,  _ sharing _ success. 

Before she could open her mouth to snap at him, Malfoy cozied up into his cubicle across the aisle from her and leaned back into his chair. He half-spun so that his body faced her, but tilted his head back and stared up at the ceiling.

Infuriating. 

“You—” 

“Hermione! Draco! On the telly—hurry!” 

A flurry of arms and legs ran through their cubicle space, attached to the erratic form of Neville Longbottom, Hermione’s trusty sidekick. Hermione and Draco stared at each other for a beat and then jumped from their seats and chased Neville through the office. 

“Neville!” Hermione’s breaths left her in ragged bursts as they wound through cubicle after cubicle. “What’s going on?”

“Longbottom, slow down.” Malfoy was hot on her heels. “Tell us what’s happening.” 

He came to a sudden stop just underneath the old telly that was affixed to the wall. Neville didn’t say anything, just pointed his gangly arm at the screen and heaved a great breath. On the screen was a slew of police officers outside of The British Museum. A crowd gathered around, some people were screaming, some were crying. It was bedlam, but Hermione couldn’t see why. 

“Turn it up, Neville,” Hermione whispered as she took a step forward. Malfoy stood at her side, shoulder to shoulder, watching the same pandemonium. 

“— potential standoff situation between local authorities and an unknown man. We’re told that he is in the archives and, I’m sorry, did you say punched a hole in the wall?” The news reporter glanced to the camera, her lips pulled down and eyes wide. Her hand moved to the side of her head and she spun her body to look back to the museum. “Eyewitnesses are saying that the man… punched… a hole through the wall of the archive and—”

“We have to go!” Hermione grabbed Malfoy by the bicep as he turned to face her. “We have to get down there  _ now _ . Neville, grab my notebook, meet us at the front of the police line.” 

“—the museum has been evacuated. Authorities are asking the public to avoid the area at all costs until the threat can be assessed. Does anyone else hear that – what is it, hissing? There is definitely a noise coming from the museum – sir, sir!—”

“It’s an active situation, Hermione.” Malfoy yanked on his wool coat and held Hermione’s long, brown trench coat open for her to slip into. “Maybe you should stay here, where it’s safe, and—”

“Like hell I will!” Hermione flipped her curly hair over the collar of her jacket and took off at a run behind Malfoy. 

Malfoy held the lift for her and leveled a glare at her. She bounced on her feet, eager to get to the scene before another newspaper scooped the story. This was it, the culmination of her work on The British Museum smuggling, she could feel it. When the lift dinged and opened, Malfoy stepped out and touched her shoulder, pausing her before she could take off at a run. 

“I’ll meet you there,” he said as he glanced around the crowded pavement. “I have to stop and—”

“Fine. Don’t blame me if you miss out on the byline,” she hissed and dragged her shoulder from his grasp. She didn’t waste a final thought as she took off down the street at a brisk jog. 

  
  
  
  
  


London was alive with fear and madness. The museum was like a train wreck; those who couldn’t turn their heads away were stationed just behind the police barrier and those who were terrified by what was happening inside were running down the street and bumping into anyone who was stupid enough to get into their way. 

“Hermione Granger, Daily Prophet,” Hermione said to a burly looking police officer. She pulled her media badge from her pocket and flashed it in front of his face. He didn’t appear to care, but then they never did. “What’s happening?”

She stepped carefully over the low barrier. The copper’s hand immediately found her shoulder and pulled her back. 

“You can’t go in there. Are you mad, lady?” 

“The story is  _ in there _ .” Hermione argued and shoved against his hand. “You’re infringing on my rights as a member of the press and—”

“I am not letting you in there to—oi! Lady! Oi!” 

His shouts followed her all the way to the entrance of the museum, but she couldn’t hear his feet following her. When she made it to the door, she heaved it open and glanced back. The old cop looked so tired as his chest rose and fell. He turned back to his unit and made several hand gestures. Hermione smiled at his back and slunk into the museum. 

The door slammed behind her. She sagged against it for a moment and stared at the empty welcome desk in the lobby. The museum seemed bigger this way, when the punters were few and the walls echoed every click of her heel. Hermione walked to a brightly colored map situated next to a brochure kiosk. A red X marked her spot and she traced her finger along the various exhibits until she found the archives. 

A loud clatter echoed through the open lobby and Hermione jumped at the sound. She scolds herself for scaring so easily; it wasn’t the first time she’d been alone in a dangerous situation. As a female investigative journalist, she often found herself in some amount of peril or another, especially since the notorious Salazar Slytherin had taken a keen liking to her. Salazar tended to attract a hotbed of crime by being one of the wealthiest men in London. Danger surrounded him and anyone who even sniffed around his life. 

As the best journalist this side of Europe, Hermione was constantly in danger. 

But, the break-in wasn’t in any way attributed to Salazar, and so it was nothing more than your bog standard breaking and entering. Which was precisely why she always carried pepper spray on her person. 

Hermione shook off the chill that ran the length of her spine. She took the stairs as quickly as her shoes would allow, hands gripping the banister with a tight vice. The quiet noises that followed her only spurred her to move faster. 

The archives were hard to miss. It was a massive library with books lining every shelf against every wall. There were few tables in the middle of the room, squished between several crates – the crates she’d wanted to check out for her story. Someone beat her to it. 

A cold draft drew her attention away from the crates. Sunlight filtered into the archive, dust particles from near-forgotten texts floated through the beams. A hole in the wall, indeed. 

“Hermione Granger.” A slithering voice whispered her name and Hermione spun round on the spot. No one was there. “Sssssso nice of you to join me.” 

She knew that voice, knew the telltale hiss that was strung out with every S. 

“The Basilisk,” she murmured quietly with a hand over her mouth. A clattering book made her jump and she backed up until her shoulders collided with a bookcase. “What are you doing here?” 

“Ssssssomething I’m ssssssearching for isssss hiding here. You might know of it.” His chuckle seemed to echo around the room so Hermione couldn’t pinpoint exactly where he was. “You’ve been on my tail for weeksssss.” 

“But The Dragon – he got rid of you!” Hermione was buying time; she had to get out of there. Her history with The Basilisk was wrought with near-death experiences and the infamous poison that he spit at his enemies. 

“He  _ wishesssss. _ ” Another laugh boomed through the space. 

He stepped from the shadows and his imposing form was twice as large as Hermione. Dressed in green, scaly Lycra from his hooded head to his booted feet. Golden discs were sewn into the fabric where the eyes would be and Hermione knew from experience that if the fabric were pulled away, she’d be dead in an instant.

“Why are you here?” She tried again and inched along the bookshelf slowly, one tiny slide at a time. 

“I require an ancient artifact.” He twisted to the side and followed her movements. 

She was so buggered.

Hermione glanced to her left where the busted wall seemed to be her only escape. While jumping from the top floor of a building wasn’t the most appealing means of evading a poisonous villain, it was her only option. She creeped slowly, one baby step at a time, until her fingers curled around the jagged edges of the wall. 

A splash of liquid sizzled next to her frizzy mane of hair and Hermione was sure she could smell the singe of burnt hair as she stumbled to her left. The Basilisk launched forward just as she hoisted herself onto the uneven, broken cement of the wall. His long arms circled around her and then he jumped from the building with a sickening laugh. 

Hermione screamed and twisted in his grasp, but he held tight as they floated mid-air. A crowd gathered below them and she could hear them shouting for her release. She looked to the ground and saw a shock of platinum hair. For a split second, she fumed that Malfoy would run off with this story. 

Higher and higher they went. The Basilisk hissed in her ear, but the wind whooshing into her eardrums drowned out his words. Instead she yelled and begged him to let her go. The sun was hot on the top of her head. It was the one beautiful day that London could lay claim to and Hermione spent it once again being captured and threatened with death. 

She pounded on the big B on The Basilisk’s chest. It had no effect. 

“Let. Me. Go.” Hermione kicked at his legs and thrashed around in his arms. 

“Asssssss you wish.” 

His arms loosened and within seconds, she freefell toward the pavement below. With her arms flailing through the air, Hermione yelled for the one person she knew could save her – the one who always came to her rescue. 

“Dragon!” 

A hard figure collided with her body and scooped her up from the bend of her knees and the crook of her neck. She breathed a sigh of relief with her eyes squeezed tight and her head pressed against the hard plane of his chest. 

“What have I told you about antagonizing the antagonist?” His voice was hoarse and right in her ear. It was intimate, even though he always maintained a respectable distance. The rumble of his chest did nothing to slow her breathing. 

“The Basilisk!” Her eyes shot open and she craned her neck to look into his eyes. Her mouth went dry as their gazes met. “He— you have to stop him.”

He is so familiar, and yet she still couldn’t put a name to him apart from the moniker she’d given him all those months ago when he first graced their city. The Dragon had smoky gray eyes, slicked down blonde hair, and far too much muscle beneath a Lycra costume. 

To everyone else, he was the savior of London. To Hermione Granger, he was her personal white knight. 

His feet touched down on a tall rooftop and The Dragon gently set Hermione onto her feet. His hands steadied her for longer than was necessary, but she wasn’t ready to lose the warmth of his body just yet. 

Somewhere along the way, she’d developed feelings for this superhuman man. 

“Priorities, Ms. Granger,” he told her with a kind smile. “If I leave you here, will you promise to remain out of sight until I take care of Basilisk?” 

“As long as you promise me an exclusive.” Her lips curled at the corners. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Alright?” Hermione exclaimed, a massive smile overtaking her features. “That was brilliant! I’m in the middle of my very own story; villains and heroes and a heist. This is exactly what I need.” 

The Dragon laughed, just a short, light, airy sound that coaxed a breathy noise from her. He tipped his chin and pushed off from the building. 

She ran to the edge of the rooftop and watched from the best vantage point in the city. The Basilisk and The Dragon faced one another in midair, their capes billowing behind them as they circled each other. 

“Thought I got rid of you,” The Dragon sneered at the snake-like man. “London has made it very clear that it no longer wants you here.” 

“There issss sssssomething I want in the mussssseum—” A jet of blue liquid spit from The Basilisk’s mouth. The Dragon shot upwards into the sky to avoid it. “You have gotten in my way for the lasssssst time, Dragon!” 

The Basilisk hurled himself forward and grabbed The Dragon around the waist. There was a scuffle, a plummet, and then they both rocketed through a cloud. When they burst through the other side, The Dragon had The Basilisk by the throat. He raised his body up and then descended quickly toward the ground and didn’t stop until The Basilisk’s back crashed into the pavement. The building Hermione stood on shook at its very foundation and she clutched at the edge of the rooftop to stay on her feet. A cloud of dust encircled the two superhumans. 

Only The Dragon emerged from the dust. As it settled, The Basilisk’s prone body lay still among the rubble of the pavement. The Dragon stood off to the side, fists resting on his waist, as the public ran to him and proclaimed their appreciation. Hermione, however, merely smiled down from her place where he’d left her. 

His eyes found hers, arm raised into the air, and then his cape swooshed through the air behind him as he rose higher and higher until he reached her. The Dragon held onto her shoulders gently and brought his gaze eye level with hers. 

“Let’s get you back to The Prophet, yeah?” 

Hermione chewed on the inside of her cheek and nodded her head. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her in close. They took off at a quick flight toward The Daily Prophet, no words exchanged between them, just a familiar hum of – something – that flushed her cheeks and sent shivers down her spine. 

  
  
  
  


The office buzzed as she and The Dragon entered through the window. Everyone rushed to them, but The Dragon backed away slowly and took off before anyone could corner him and interrogate him about his battle with The Basilisk. Hermione turned to find him, to remind him about the exclusive he agreed to, but he was gone and out of sight before she could even call his name. 

“Gone again!” Neville sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You’re getting awfully close to The Dragon, Hermione.” 

“Of course we’re close. He saved my life  _ again _ ,” she countered, unable to pull the smile off her face. She pushed her way through the crowd of journalists and sat down behind her desk. “Where’s Malfoy? Have you seen him?” 

Neville, with his hands on his hips, glanced around, and shook his head. “No, hasn’t been back since you lot took off toward the British Museum. I reckon he’s—”

“Coffee?” The familiar blonde set a polystyrene cup down in front of her with a smirk. “I know how much you value a brew after a life or death situation.” 

“How can you think about coffee at a time like this?” Hermione grabbed the nearest stack of papers and shuffled them around. Somewhere in there was the article she started about the imports to the British Museum. “What did you come up with on ground zero?” 

“No ‘thank you Draco’. No ‘how thoughtful of you Malfoy’. Nothing.” Malfoy sat down in his chair across the aisle and smiled wryly at Neville. “Partnership, my arse.” 

“You want to win The Pulitzer just as badly as I do,” she argued with narrowed, brown eyes. “Come on now, tell me what happened on the ground. Did you get any interviews from the people who work in the museum.” 

“I’m afraid not.” He sipped his coffee and watched her over the lid of his cup. Her eyebrows shot up and lips pulled down. “Sorry, Granger, but I was busy getting shoved along in the panic of the crowd. I can visit the museum later, take some statements.” 

“God, Malfoy, you really don’t get journalism, do you?” Hermione shook her head and drank the coffee he brought her regardless of her annoyance towards him. “The point of a scoop is to get there  _ first _ . Luckily, The Dragon offered me an exclusive and—”

Malfoy coughed. Neville thumped him on the back. “An exclusive? Does he know how dangerous that is? Are you quite certain he agreed?”

“He didn’t say no.” Hermione tapped her pen against one of the many papers scattered over her desk and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. “I suppose he didn’t say yes, either.” 

“The Dragon is a very private bloke,” Draco reminded her, regardless of the fact that she already knew that about him; she knew a  _ lot _ about him. “He doesn’t give exclusives.” 

“I’m different. Neville, listen to the radio and let me know if anyone spots The Dragon.” Hermione shooed Neville away and turned back to her article. “He’ll turn up and I’ll talk him into the exclusive. He can’t avoid me forever.” 

Malfoy mumbled something under his breath, but she didn’t catch it. Probably another one of his witty comments about her mental faculties. He did so love to allude to the idea that Hermione was actually mad and not as brilliant as others in their community tended to think. 

As they’d done for months, Hermione and Malfoy sat side by side and worked on their respective articles. Hermione checked back through weeks of statements and facts, while Malfoy’s fingers flew across the keyboard of his bulky computer. Every click, click of his keyboard drove her batty as she scribbled across a pad of paper. 

When she turned to him to tell him to stop, for the millionth time since they began working together, she found Malfoy was already facing her with his hands clasped together and resting against his stomach. His glasses were perched on the edge of his nose as he surveyed her, and for a moment she thought he could almost pass for— but no, that was ridiculous. Draco Malfoy was as normal as they came, nothing super about him at all. 

“What?” Hermione asked with a notch forming between her brows. 

“I was just thinking.” A small smile greeted her confusion. “If The Dragon grants you an exclusive, that would be cause for celebration.” 

“I suppose?” She tried to fight off the excitement, but couldn’t help the way that it flared up inside of her. 

“Let’s say if he does, by some miraculous turn of events, decide to grant you an exclusive look into his life—you and I have dinner to celebrate.” 

Her excitement fluttered even as her smile began to fade. “Like a date?” 

As her smile dwindled, his grew. His gray eyes glittered in her direction and he nodded. 

It came out of nowhere. Perhaps not nowhere, Hermione reasoned as she watched the way he carefully followed every slight movement she made. They certainly worked together for a while, spent a lot of time together as their job required, and it wasn’t as if he was a bad looking bloke—not by any stretch of the imagination. It’s just that she didn’t date often and because her hours were scattered throughout the day and night, she’d never really expected anyone to  _ want _ to date her. 

“Alright,” she answered him finally, a single jut of her chin before she turned back to her pad of paper and continued jotting down notes from her afternoon with The Basilisk and The Dragon. 

  
“Alright.” She heard him whisper, more like a confirmation to himself than to her. 

A cold breeze overtook the office and Hermione curled in on herself as she continued to work on her article. She reached below her desk and flicked on her space heater. When she sat straight again, there was a small, folded note on her desk. She opened it gingerly and glanced around the office space to see who might have placed it on her desk. 

_ Tomorrow. Hyde Park. Sunset.  _

Hermione clutched the note to her chest and grinned down at her desk. 

“It scares me when you smile like that.” 

She turned her gaze on him quick and when she found him smiling, Hermione’s grin grew. 

“Dinner tonight?” She flashed him the note from The Dragon, but pulled it from between his fingers when he stood up and tried to take it from her grasp. “That’s a private note, thank you. Do you want dinner tonight or not?” 

Malfoy’s fingers closed and he stuffed his hand into his pocket, leaning against the side of her desk with his hip. 

“He actually gave you the exclusive?” His eyes were filled with amusement. “He must really like you, Granger.” 

Her face flushed and she stuffed the note in her desk drawer. “Yes, well, obviously he knows which journalists are worth speaking to.” 

Malfoy hummed his agreement. “What time will I pick you up tonight?” 

“You won’t be picking me up, Malfoy,” Hermione informed him as she stood from her desk and pulled her coat on. “I’ll meet you at The Leaky Cauldron at seven.” 

He laughed, but that’s the only response she heard as she walked through the office and stepped into the lift. As the doors closed, she caught just a small flash of his platinum hair and the beginning curl of a smile that lifted his lips. 


End file.
